The Alternate Christopher Jones

Part 2 of 3

He told her about the accident at Aspen a few months before, his voice now dull and without expression. "One minute they were up there, waving, and the next...." He shrugged. He was not even near to tears anymore, Sarah realized. But--"

"They?"

They had pulled apart slightly, and she was looking directly at him as she asked the question. For just an instant, something like terror seemed to flicker in his eyes.

"There--there was a little girl with her."

Horrified: "Alone?"

"No. Her--mother was with her." Fear and confusion. She knew without the slightest doubt that he was not lying, could not be lying. Not about something like this. And yet she knew that he was lying about something. "There were three of them in the lift--Mary and this other woman and her child. That's what I meant by 'they.'"

"Robbie and Stevie weren't with you in Aspen?"

He went completely blank at that. Then, slowly: "No. They weren't with us. They're...fine." And he smiled--a vague, almost uncomprehending smile.

She held him silently again, telling herself that he was still in shock, that that was the only possible explanation for such bizarre behavior. Then she turned to the fascinated children. "Jill, T'Ara --this is my cousin, Chris Jones. We grew up together on Earth."

He did not seem to see T'Ara at all, but moved slowly to Jill and took both her hands in his. "Hello, Jill." Sarah, always aware of intense feeling, wondered that he should care this much about a child he had not seen in four years. But she was also very conscious of Jill's reaction; it was perhaps only the second time in her life that she had had the affectionate, undivided attention of an adult, human male.

"Hello." For the first time since they left school, she smiled. And then, inexplicably, "Do you have a little girl?"

"No." It was only the one word. It seemed as though he literally could not say any more. Watching Jill's face from over his shoulder, Sarah saw the child now looking at him as though she were afraid he was going to burst into tears.

But there was confusion in Jill's eyes. "You don't?"

"Jill--no more questions, okay?" Trying to ease the tension, Sarah invited him into the wing she shared with her daughters. He seemed almost unaware of his surroundings, barely interested in the decor of the spacious rooms, and oddly enough, barely interested in T'Ara, who couldn't have cared less and disappeared into her room, now impassive. But when Sarah suggested that Jill go and change, he said quickly, "No--let her stay. I want to--to get to know your children. It's been a long time, and Jill is so grown up compared to when I saw her last." He smiled then--a hollow travesty of his former smile, but an attempt nevertheless.

"She'll be back in a few minutes," Sarah insisted firmly. "She's been playing softball, and it's bathtime. Hair too, Jilly."

"I used to play softball," Chris informed Jill, undeterred. Then he turned to Sarah, again exhibiting the peculiar hesitancy that she had noticed at first. "You used to play too, didn't you?

"Of course I did!" Could the shock of losing his wife have been so profound that his memory was affected? "Don't you remember the time we beat the Red Angels in the finals?"

He stared at her for a moment, and then smiled his first real smile. It was, in fact, a grin. "We beat 'em?"

"You remember. Bobbie...Bobbie Whatshisname?"

"Morton," he said, fascinated. "Did--did the ball clear the fence?"

"Don't you remember?"

"Sarah," he said, still grinning, "do you realize that if just a few circumstances had been different--not so much wind, maybe--that ball might have fallen inside and been caught on the fly?"

"But it wasn't."

"So you tell me." He turned again to the child. "Jill, it was the last of the eleventh, and we were tied--"

"Chris, I'm sorry, but she just has to go and get cleaned up now."

"Well, that's a mother for you, huh?" He smiled at Jill almost conspiratorially. "You go get changed, then. I'll be here for a while." And Jill scampered off, obviously eager for the rest of the story.

Chris turned back to Sarah, and his smile disappeared. "It seems odd," he said, frowning a little, "to see you with a husband and another child."

"Odd?"

"If your husband had been killed on Tara, your life would have been very different. Jill might have been mine--and Mary's. We might have adopted her."

She could only stare at him. His voice had been matter-of-fact, as though he were suggesting alternative plans for dinner. "Killed?" she repeated, her voice tight.

"I'm sorry." His contrition was genuine. "That was a stupid thing to say." Again, the vague, aimless smile.

"You still have Robbie and Stevie," she said, and then wished she hadn't.

He looked at her blankly for a moment. "Yes, of course." His voice sounded numb. "They look like Mary. Both of them." But it was as though he were talking about someone else's children.

He rose and began to pace, and I-Chaya opened one eye and stared suspiciously at him.

"Is that a wild animal?" Chris paused, looking across the courtyard at the sehlat.

"Not really. Just big. He didn't threaten you, did he?"

"No. But I kept thinking it was going to. Big is right. Is it a bear or what?"

I-Chaya snorted and closed his eyes in disgust.

"No. They were wild at one time, but now they're sort of semi-domesticated. He didn't attack you because he knew you were harmless."

"How?"

She studied him for a moment, knowing him well. "I don't think I'll tell you," she said wryly. "You wouldn't believe me. Let's just say he knew you were benevolent toward the family or he wouldn't have let you into the courtyard."

"Does Jill have much to do with it?"

"Oh, yes. They're very fond of each other."

"Sarah--how is Jill?"

"She's fine," answered firmly. "Why?"

"She doesn't look very happy somehow. Not like--" Another inexplicable change of expression. "It must be tough on a kid living on another world, not seeing her own people."

"She does. At school." Impulsively, because she had always confided in him, she went on with something that she had never told anyone else. "But I know what you mean. Lately I've been thinking about taking both of them to Earth for a while--in about three years. After T'Ara is bonded."

He stopped pacing and stood facing her, hands in his pockets. Wrong turn. Chris had never had much sympathy with Vulcan customs. "That whole business is like something out of the Stone Age. Are you really going to go along with it?"

"It's necessary."

"Well--" But he was not interested in T'Ara. "Why do you have to wait that long? Couldn't you go now and come back when she has to be--uh--bonded?"

"I have to stay here on Vulcan," she answered carefully, "for another year or so." It crossed her mind to tell him why; after all, he was a medical man, and her nearest living relative. Then, realizing what she had been about to do, she felt a wave of horror. Was the need to talk to another adult human besides Amanda that great?

"That long?"

"Yes. I have personal reasons."

"More important than Jill's happiness?" There was an odd, intense look about him as he asked the question.

"It's not a question of either-or."

"And if it were?"

"If it were," she said reluctantly, "then--yes, this would be more important."

"Sarah," he said coldly, "why did you keep her?" Then, before she could express her incredulity: "If I had a little girl like that, I'd risk my life to make her happy. I wouldn't think twice about it." For the first time, there were tears in his eyes.

It's not my life I'd be risking. The words were there, but she could not say them. Instead she said as calmly as she could: "I kept Jill because I wanted her very much. Next to my husband, she and T'Ara are the most important people in my life. I would risk my life gladly for hers, but at this moment I don't know what would make her happy. But I try very hard to find out. Always. Will you believe that?"

After a moment he said quietly, "Of course I do." Again he moved across the courtyard, but when I-Chaya opened one eye, he turned and paced back again. "I have no right to be here like this," he said finally, standing before her as though he were waiting for her to pass judgment on him for a crime she had no knowledge of. "I don't belong here." His voice had grown thin, and he seemed to be holding back tears again. "I have to go home soon."

"Not before you have dinner with us," she said gently. "Home is a long way."

"Yes." He stared at her. "Yes, it is." Then, pulling himself together once more: "Your in-laws don't mind your asking a guest to dinner?"

"This is my home, Chris."

"Well, it's--nice that you feel that way." He sat down on the bench next to her, but he was restless and uneasy. "I don't know why you put up with a set-up like this when you don't have to."

"That's what you said four years ago."

He glanced at her sharply, and then went on. "Good for me. Vulcan is underpopulated. There's no reason for people to have to live on top of each other the way we do at home. And aren't they pretty much sticklers for privacy?"

"Yes. My living with Spock's parents is a cultural anomaly, but so is the absentee father. This is the only way we could handle it."

"Handle what?"

"T'Ara is a Vulcan, and a Vulcan child must live with at least one adult Vulcan or lose touch with--with the racial identity. I can't explain it in words."

Chris had ceased his restless movements and was looking at her with interest. "You mean you don't understand why, but you're living here because your husband insists on it."

"No, that's not what I mean," she answered calmly, sensing his confusion because her manner was not defensive. "No one insists on anything. But I can't explain it in words because it wasn't conveyed to me in words."

"You mean telepathy?"

"Something like that."

"Boy, that is weird. Look, T'Ara's not a Vulcan child. She's only one-quarter--"

"Is she?" Sarah asked softly. "You saw her."

"Now you're talking about cultural conditioning."

"Am I? You should have seen her when she was younger. You would have thought she was retarded or autistic. I would have thought so if I hadn't seen other Vulcan children in my work. Sarek was the only one who could handle her at all, and he seemed--well, permissive by Earth standards. He kept saying that if she was controlled from the outside, she would never gain control from within." Chris snorted softly. "I almost went out of my mind with her until about six months ago. She'd had no discipline, couldn't feed herself, wasn't toilet-trained--you name it. Then, in about seventy-two hours, it was all done. It was--as though a tiger cub suddenly turned into a Persian kitten, sitting on a silk pillow."

"And how do you account for this change?"

"She gained control. The mechanism was maturing--"

"Oh, Sarah, that's bull! I'm sorry, but the kid's repressed, that's all. I know she's your baby and you believe in all this stuff, but I'm a physician too, remember? T'Ara is not a normal four-year-old. I think you better start--"

Sarah put up her hand for silence--firmly and without agitation.

"All right," he said evenly. "So she's controlled. So move out. Jill--"

"It's not that simple. I couldn't move out of here unless Spock agreed that T'Ara should be brought up as a human. And even if he did --." Heartsick, she thought of Simon Greenwood. "Even if he did, I wouldn't. But he never would. He knows better."

"But you said you're planning to take them to Earth. How does he feel about that?"

"I--" For the first time, she hesitated. "I haven't discussed it with him. He's due home on leave tomorrow. We'll talk about it then."

"Do." Chris was looking at her intently once more. "It's important to Jill. Don't let it slide any longer."

Under the influence of Amanda's gracious hospitality, Chris seemed to relax, becoming almost the smiling, easygoing brother and friend of Sarah's past life. Watching them together, Sarah admired Amanda for her tact and charm; somehow this lonely, grief-stricken visitor was a little less lonely now.

Before they went in for the meal, Amanda explained the Vulcan custom of silence during meals while her husband, although remaining silent himself, allowed one eyebrow to rise noticeably.

"Important matters shouldn't be discussed while eating. It's not good for the digestion. And unimportant matters shouldn't be discussed at all." It was a blatant oversimplification of a rather complex idea, but Amanda's eyes were dancing. Sarek said nothing, and Chris was thoroughly charmed.

When they came to the table, he held Amanda's chair for her. And then, with an apologetic glance at Sarah, he went to Jill and held her chair, receiving a dazzling smile in return. Jill was obviously captivated, and it occurred to Sarah that it might be long past time for child to come to know her father. If she were to admit the truth to herself, she realized, she had not given the matter much thought lately. Humans are possessive about their children. Her own words to T'Loreth that afternoon came back to her now, and she sighed.

Jill was fascinated by Chris's adam's apple. Sarah knew that the child was watching it bob as he ate, and she could see the slight twitching of Jill's mouth from time to time. Remembering herself and Chris at eight, she knew that this was just the kind of thing that a child that age would find hilarious. Well, if Jill should giggle, it wouldn't do any harm. She had giggled at the table more than once over the years, and Sarek had never reprimanded her. Sarah had never ceased to marvel at the fact that he did not expect Jill to behave like a Vulcan child, even though she was living in a Vulcan home. Now that T'Ara had gained control, his expectations of her were as high as they had once been of Spock. But Jill was human, and Sarek did not forget that even for a moment.

But in the end, it was T'Ara who giggled.

The sound was so unexpected and so thoroughly unfamiliar that at first Sarah did not know where it had come from. She looked up, startled, and saw that Sarek was looking straight at the child--simply looking at her, without even a hint of reproof. T'Ara, now totally impassive, returned his intent gaze for a moment. Then, still expressionless, she rose and left the room without a word, and without so much as a look at her mother. She was not upset, Sarah knew, not even controlling. The thing had happened, and the consequences must be lived with. It was the Vulcan way.

She was aware that Chris was looking at her. That look said, as clearly as words: This is normal?

"That's not fair!" Without warning, Jill's voice burst the silence as though she had slashed it. "You know it wasn't her fault!" And Sarah, with a faint thrill of horror, realized that the child was speaking to Sarek.

She felt herself tensing for the reprimand that she knew must come. But it did not come. Sarek's dark eyes now rested on Jill, but with tenderness rather than anger. "Your sister is a Vulcan," he said with infinite gentleness. "She must remain so. Do you understand?"

Tears came to Jill's eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered, and then she too rose and left the room.

Thoroughly confused, Sarah turned to Sarek, knowing that he would not speak, hoping that she could somehow read the reason for it all. He gazed back at her for a moment, almost sadly. Then he dropped his gazed and continued with the meal.

"Excuse me." Sarah rose hastily and followed Jill into the courtyard. As she had expected, the child was being comforted by I-Chaya, her cheek against the great animal's side.

"Jill." Sarah sat down beside her on the ground and laid her hand gently on the shining hair, still damp from her shampoo. "What happened?"

"I made her laugh." It was only a whisper. "It was my fault, but she was punished." The injustice of it seemed to break her heart.

"It wasn't punishment. You know that."

A deep sigh. "I know. But...."

"How did you make her laugh?"

Jill turned then, and gave her mother the oddest look that Sarah had ever received from anyone. It was part pity and part...reproof? "I can't do it with you anymore," Jill said tightly. "You don't hear anymore. You just try to listen in."

"I don't know what you're--"

"You don't understand! You don't understand anything!" Again close to tears, Jill scrambled up and made for the door into the house, avoiding Chris although he tried to catch her as she ducked around him.

"Jill!" he cried. "Honey, don't--" But she was gone, and he turned on Sarah, almost white with fury. "Sarah, that--that demigod in there is breaking her spirit, and T'Ara's, and yours too. I saw you look at him before you dared even go and comfort your own child. What's happened to you? You let him banish Jill--"

"No one was banished," Sarah answered quietly, trying to keep her voice under control. "You just don't understand."

"That," he said coldly, "is what your daughter was saying to you just now. But you 'don't hear anymore.' I'd like to know what's so important that you can't find the time to listen to her." Stiffly, now trying to control his anger: "Please make my apologies to our hostess. I think I've had enough Vulcan hospitality to last me a lifetime. It's bad for the digestion." And without another word, he left the courtyard and began to walk rapidly down the hill.

Numb, Sarah remained sitting on the ground near I-Chaya's head. Finally he thrust a warm nose against the inside of her elbow.

"Thanks," she said softly. "It's nice to know somebody likes me. Oh, what am I doing wrong?" No comment. "No. What am I doing right? Anything at all?" Still no comment. "I almost wish Spock weren't coming home tomorrow. I don't think I'm fit company for anyone." Soft, comforting moan. "Yes, it is sad. Oh, I-Chaya, I miss him so." She pressed her fist against her mouth, and was still sitting in the same position when Sarek came to the door.

She knew she should get up, but somehow it didn't seem worth the effort.

"You did not interfere," he said softly, and his eyebrows made it a question.

"If I had found you unjust, Sarek, I would have," she said wearily. And then, unable to resist: "They are my children." He gazed back at her silently, totally without challenge, and she sighed. "I'm--I regret that I said that. I know you won't rise to that kind of bait." An almost-smile, and Sarah too smiled a little in spite of herself. "Please tell me what happened in there."

For an instant he seemed to hesitate. Then, expressionless: "You are not competent to handle the situation, Sarah."

"But I have a right to--" Realizing that he had not finished speaking, she inclined her head. "Please continue."

There was a flash of something in his eyes. Approval? "If Spock permits it," he said quietly, "you shall know of it as soon as he arrives."

"But I thought--you won't see him, will you?"

"It will be arranged."

"Is it that serious?"

"Indeed."

"I see." There was no use questioning him further, she knew.

The courtyard fountain whispered in the relative cool of the evening as T'Ara and her grandfather left through the gate to walk together down the hill. Jill perched on the rim of the fountain, her hand trailing in the water. Sarah sat on a bench with Amanda's guitar on her lap, fingering the strings idly. Amanda worked nearby, replacing a violin string.

"Any chance I can have something besides the Telemann in the foreseeable future?" Sarah asked, knowing the answer.

"You can't learn the guitar without learning baroque," Amanda answered mildly. "What do you want me to give you next?"

"Rodrigo. The fantasy he wrote for Segovia."

"Fantasia para un Gentilhombre. My dear, that's about as baroque as you can get. They're all Gaspar Sanz themes, three hundred years old when Rodrigo reworked them. The second movement is a fugue."

"The third movement isn't." Slowly, but only a little slower than the appropriate tempo, she picked out both melody and harmony for an eight-measure or sixteen-measure or thirty-two-measure theme; she had no idea which it was, since she had never seen the notes. Then the repetition, and then the next theme. Jill watched from the edge of the fountain, and Amanda watched from her chair, both of them smiling a little.

"You're doing that by ear?" Amanda asked softly.

"This. Everything." Sarah gave her a twisted smile. "All by ear." She went on playing--a simple, lyrical melody with a faint trace of sadness. "She follows him around, but not like a puppy. Like a puff of smoke."

Amanda and Jill both glanced toward the gate through which Sarek and T'Ara had passed from their sight only a few moments ago.

"Her father was the same way," Amanda said, her voice soft with memory.

"I wish they could know each other," Sarah said, trying to keep her voice steady. "She and her father."

Abruptly, Jill got up and walked over to I-Chaya, who was lying out of earshot at the other end of the courtyard. Dropping down next to the sehlat, she laid her cheek against his side, turning her face away from Amanda and her mother.

After a moment, Amanda asked softly, "How long are you going to let that go on before you do something about it?"

"Let what go on?"

"Why doesn't her father tape to her?"

"I don't know." Sarah turned to look directly at Amanda, trying to see her clearly in the gathering darkness. "I wish I did."

"Then find out. Her normal feelings of possessiveness are getting dammed up, diverted into odd channels." After a short silence: "I'm sorry. I swore to myself that I wouldn't interfere."

"Don't be cryptic, Amanda," Sarah said wearily. "Does this have something to do with what happened at dinner?"

"I've already said too much." Amanda looked over at her, and Sarah sensed genuine affection in her gaze. "Oh, to think that I'd ever end up sounding like a mother-in-law." She shook her head in mock horror, and they both laughed spontaneously.

"I don't resent advice," Sarah said gently. "I thought you knew that."

"Once a Vulcan becomes a parent," Amanda reminded her, "his parents can't give advice unless he permits it. To him or to his spouse."

"You and I aren't Vulcans."

Amanda looked up from her work, directly at her. "Double standard, Sarah?"

For no reason that she could understand, Sarah thought at that moment of her plans to take her daughters to Earth. Feeling obscurely uncomfortable, she looked away and returned from their tangent. "That's what Sarek meant by 'if Spock permits it,' I suppose."

Amanda nodded. "I hope you realize how difficult this is for Sarek. He's acting--what we would call in loco parentis for Spock. There's a Vulcan name for it, but I can't say it properly. Ordinarily, such a person is permitted to confer with the parent. In fact, he's obliged to if a serious situation arises. But because Spock is Sarek's adult son, he can't do it without permission from Spock."

"But why?"

"It would violate Spock's privacy. He's an adult now."

Like a dance, Sarah thought. Like a stately dance. "I think I understand. It's a double bind."

Amanda smiled a little but did not answer. After a moment, she looked toward Jill. "I met Jim Kirk once. I liked him." Sarah nodded. "He has to come back to Vulcan to pick Spock up after he takes Sarek to the conference, doesn't he?" Sarah nodded again, and Amanda sighed. "There I go again."

"But you're right."

"I know."

Sarah laughed again in spite of herself. "I should have asked him to come and see her. I realize that now. But--I've never seen the notes for this one either."

"You were doing fine on the Rodrigo." They smiled at each other. "Do you suppose he doesn't want to come here for some reason?"

"I have no idea. But I'll try to find out."

"Spock could make him come and see her," Amanda said, her voice a queer mixture of confidence and hopelessness.

"He wouldn't, though."

"I know." Amanda sighed. "But it was a nice thought while it lasted."

At the request of its distinguished passenger-to-be, the shuttlecraft Columbus landed at the end of an isolated pier that was only partially completed. The uncovered base and its partial coping stretched out under the tangerine sky, out from the central geodesic dome of the shuttleport, which was also a domestic spaceport. Sarah had paced to the end of the pier, away from Sarek and his aides who were standing motionless and virtually without conversation at the approximate midpoint of the pier. She had the impression that the aides did not particularly like waiting in the open air, heavy as it was with moisture. But Sarek had specified where he wanted the shuttle to land, and Sarah knew why: he wanted privacy to speak with his son.

Expecting Spock to be aboard the shuttle, she waited for him to appear with her heart pounding (she told herself irreverently) as though she were a teenager with a crush. But he did not appear, and for a moment she wondered if there had been some mistake in communications; perhaps Spock had beamed directly to the house in ShiKahr.

Sarek's aides moved on down the pier, past Sarah and into the Columbus. Just as she began to walk back toward Sarek, Spock materialized at an intermediate point between them, his back to Sarah. Partially because of the link between them and partially because of the rigid tension in his body, she realized immediately what was in his mind: Sarek had come to meet him alone to inform him of some tragedy.

"Spock," she called out, and he whirled to face her as she walked to him and touched her fingers to his. "I'm fine," she added softly as his gaze seemed to devour her. "We all are. Welcome home."

His gaze lingered on hers, and she knew that if they had been alone he would have touched her face before he lowered his hand. But he turned from her with obvious reluctance and gave his father the traditional greeting.

"Live long and prosper, Sarek." The quiet words seemed to settle into the surrounding air as though they were comfortable there. Now that Spock had become a parent, he would no longer address his father as anything but "Sarek." Their relationship now was one of adult to adult, and both of them seemed at ease with it.

But the next instant, Sarah was thrown into complete confusion. Sarek had been watching Spock as he approached, and with something Sarah privately thought very similar to human pride in his eyes. But when his son drew near, Sarek turned away with a slow, deliberate, almost stylized motion--simply turned his back and stood gazing in the opposite direction. It was the gesture of a human bent on ignoring another human, and for a moment Sarah wondered if she and Spock had offended his father in their manner of greeting one another. But that was nonsense. He had seemed anything but offended just before he turned away.

Glancing quickly at Spock for her cue, she saw that he appeared slightly startled but not upset. His eyebrows rose, but then his face became...no, not impassive. She would have to call it thoughtful.

"Speak, Father." The words were spoken with quiet confidence; Spock obviously knew exactly what was happening and was quite sure how he should respond. Admiring his cool, Sarah did not notice that he had addressed Sarek as "Father." But then Sarek turned immediately to face him, and she realized that this was what Amanda had meant when she had said that Sarek could not speak to his son about T'Ara without Spock's permission. How efficient, she thought. And how Vulcan. Now Spock knew exactly what the conversation would be about without any hemming and hawing from Sarek. For there could be only one reason that Sarek would wish to advise him as his parent.

"Peace and long life, Spock." Sarek hesitated fractionally and then, speaking Standard with obvious deference to Sarah's presence, he began to tell his son why he wished to speak with him.

Sarah listened first with awe and then with growing horror. With great difficulty, she kept silent until Sarek seemed to have reached a temporary stopping point. Then, not quite steadily: "You mean that T'Ara can't tell her own thoughts from Jill's?"

"The situation is not yet that critical," Sarek replied quietly. "But it soon will be."

"But Jill is human. She's not--"

"Your daughter is an extremely sensitive telepath, Sarah. Have you not observed her en rapport with I-Chaya?"

But it was not the picture of Jill with I-Chaya that Sarah saw in her mind. For a moment she was far from Vulcan, alone with Spock and her child on a planet with a pale green sky and a yellow sun very similar to Sol. The ant. She was in telepathic contact with the ant. And it was as though one more piece of a complex puzzle fell into place.

"But--can't you do something about this?"

"Were I to create a telepathic block in T'Ara's mind, our purpose would be accomplished. However--" Sarah almost sighed. "That circumstance would cause Jill to experience a severe trauma when she again attempted to contact her sister." Then, looking directly at Spock: "T'Ara is too immature to understand all the implications of this situation. But Jill is not."

There was a moment's silence, and, seeing pain in Spock's expression, Sarah wondered if she had missed something important in the conversation. But when he answered his father's implied request, she knew why it was that Sarek had wanted to speak with him.

"I am not Jill's father." And Sarah seemed to hear his voice speaking from their common past: Only the parent is permitted contact.

"Sarah is not telepathically competent to handle the problem," Sarek answered expressionlessly. "Nor, I believe, is Captain Kirk. Are you able to suggest another practicable alternative, Spock?"

Controlling, Sarah thought, unable to keep from turning a trained physician's eye on Spock.

"No, Father, I am not." It was almost a sigh.

So that was it. This was something that could not be explained to a child of eight in words.

"It's all right." Impulsively, Sarah laid her hand on Spock's arm. "Please don't worry."

They both looked at her with such identical expressions of indulgent patience that she almost smiled. Leave it to a human to blurt It's all right as the solution to any problem.

The shuttle was waiting. Having accomplished his purpose, Sarek took leave of them without further delay. It was clear that he had not the slightest doubt that Spock could handle the situation, and it seemed to Sarah that his father's confidence transmitted itself to Spock in some measure. By the time the shuttle disappeared into the red clouds, he had relaxed a little, and as they walked back toward the dome, his eyes wandered over the field, automatically taking inventory of the various ships around and about.

One in particular seemed to arrest his attention: a space yacht parked at some distance from the pier on which they walked. There was something odd about the shape of it. Sarah, who knew little about such things, could not identify just where the anomaly lay.

Spock almost stopped walking, looking at the little ship.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Deja vu," he answered, obviously reluctant to admit to such a human experience. "It's gone now." But he had been under considerable stress in the last few minutes, and Sarah did not find it unusual that his half human mind might play tricks on him under such circumstances.

"Come, my husband." She took his arm and pressed her cheek against his shoulder. "Let's go home."

At the controls of his father's private aircar, he seemed to relax and even be enjoying himself operating the 'car manually until Sarah asked, "Did Jim get my message?" When he did not answer, but continued to gaze out at Vulcan's Forge, she went on to explain that she had sent Jim a message as soon as the Enterprise went into orbit, asking him to beam down on his return to Vulcan and explaining cryptically why she thought it was necessary. "Nothing personal," she added hastily. "But she's at the age where human girls want to imitate their mothers and bake cakes for their fathers. She needs him, I guess." And suddenly she realized that there was more regret in her voice than she had intended. "Did he get the message?"

"Indeed." He did not look at her as he answered.

"Shall I tell Jill?"

"No," he answered without hesitation. "Jim is not on leave. Many unforeseen complications could arise between now and tomorrow. Sarah--" He looked directly at her now, obviously in some conflict, but needing to speak anyway. "Trust him. He will come when he can."

"I'll try. But he's never even taped to her, and it's been four years."

He gazed at her in silence for a moment, and she had the strong impression that he wanted to say more. But he did not say more, and she perceived that he was partially shielding his mind from her. For a moment she felt threatened and shut out, and repressed the feeling. He had not been home in years, and nothing was going to spoil it for them. Nothing.

He had put the 'car on automatic as they spoke, and now he surprised her completely by gently taking her hand. "Tell me about T'Ara."

"Well, she's--" The image of their child, looking up at her as she asked Why are you sad? rose in her mind, and she knew he could see it as clearly as she could. "Beautiful," she finished softly, unable to think of another word.

He kissed her then, his free hand lightly stroking her throat, the other tightening on hers. In that moment she felt his longing for her even as hers for him rose to meet it. She understood immediately that little had been resolved in his mind; he still saw his need for her in direct conflict with his need to be his Vulcan father's son, with all that that implied. It'll be all right, she thought, now holding him as he held her. You'd still be Spock. I couldn't want anybody else like this. So clear to her, and yet she knew that it still made no sense at all to him.

"Live long and prosper, Spock." Amanda greeted her son appropriately and with obvious affection. Yet she did not make a move to embrace him, even in the Vulcan manner, until he answered.

"Peace and long life...." He paused, and one eyebrow climbed as he tried valiantly not to smile. "...Mother."

"You'd better not," Amanda answered sweetly. And as mother and son embraced with traditional complexity, Sarah thought wryly: Whose double standard?

By the time Amanda had temporarily had her fill of fussing over her son, it was early afternoon. She suddenly began to insist that she was quite tired, really, and thought she would just lie down for a little while if they could get along without her. This last was said with a certain affectionate irony, but Sarah's genuine protests fell on deaf ears; when Amanda made up her mind, it was made up for good. A few minutes later, Spock and Sarah and the two girls, kept home from school for the day, were in the 'car on their way to an area of Vulcan's Forge just outside the city.

No one had ever told T'Ara that parent and child were supposed to love one another. Although Spock knew that humans still believed this even after several centuries of post-Freudian reality, his Vulcan background spared him the painful combination of guilt and resentment usually felt by an absentee father in an emotion-laden society upon finding his home semi-dominated by the needs of a small person less than half his size. Once he and T'Ara had been introduced, the dominant emotion they shared was, predictably, intense curiosity. Unhampered by guilt and jealousy, both of them set about satisfying that curiosity as directly as possible. It brought Sarah close to tears to watch them, throughout the late hours of the morning, seated facing one another on the floor, cross-legged, expressionlessly discussing God-knew-what that seemed to have something to do with the lower reaches of higher mathematics. The Soma was produced, and Spock watched while T'Ara put it together in several different ways--although it might have been the same way all two dozen and one times, for all Sarah knew. There was nothing in his expression or in his manner to suggest the slightest affection or even a hint of pride. Yet Sarah had never seen him concentrate so exclusively on any other conversation.

Also predictably, Jill spent most of the morning watching Spock and her sister with a peculiar closed expression in her eyes that tore at Sarah's heart. The child had greeted Spock with more dignity than affection, and Sarah knew that, much as Jill had once loved him, she now scarcely remembered him or their life on Tara.

But Spock had not forgotten. When Jill remarked at lunch that a herd of mandilla were grazing near the outskirts of the city, he asked immediately, "Would you like to go to see them this afternoon, Jill?"

"Yes," Jill answered, smiling and enthusiastic for the first time since he arrived. "That would be fun."

T'Ara gave her mother an odd, almost conspiratorial look at the mention of fun, but she too was intensely interested in going to see the mandilla--small herbivores about the size of the ancient dawn horses of Earth, but with fragile, hollow bones and wide wings that enabled them to glide from rock to rock although not actually to fly for long distances.

Because of the unusual coolness of the air, none of them wore desert suits, but only the loose trousers and v-necked tunic that were usually worn indoors. They left the 'car at some distance from the herd, and spent a quiet and pleasant afternoon moving among the animals, watching them glide about, munch, paw delicately at the ground, and give the four humanoids interested but fearless glances from time to time.

The overcast made it possible for the excursion to last longer than it otherwise would have. But Sarah and Jill grew tired long before the other two were ready to leave. Spock and his daughter continued to enjoy the animals and one another, while Sarah and Jill sat in the shade of a boulder and watched.

"Spock is too thin," Jill said finally. "Don't you think he's too thin?"

"I think he's just right."

Jill glanced at her and then away again. "You miss him, don't you?"

"When he's not here."

"That's almost all the time." Jill drew the male symbol in the sand, then the female symbol beside it, and it was Sarah's turn to try not to smile. But then Jill lost interest in her drawing, drew up her knees and stared at Spock and T'Ara. "Do you think Chris will come back while Spock is home?" she asked wistfully. "They should get to know each other, don't you think? Why don't you invite him?" There was urgency in her voice now.

With a shock, Sarah realized that she had not even thought about Chris or his tragic loss since Spock's arrival. Poor Chris. "He was angry with me when he left last night."

"Why?"

"He thinks I'm not being a very good mother to you. Because I didn't say anything when Sarek--when you left the table."

""Oh, well." Jill sighed tolerantly. "He prob'ly just doesn't understand Vulcans. Do you think he might come back anyway?"

"I don't even know where he's staying. I'm sorry. Maybe tomorrow--" But she did not want to think about tomorrow.

"Mother," Jill asked almost coldly, "why don't you or my father want him to come and see us like Chris did?"

You or my father?

It seemed to Sarah that her mind split in two, scrambling along two paths at once, one as treacherous and potentially tragic as the other. Stop, she thought, panicky. Think what you're going to say. Don't just blurt something out. Think first. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Slowly, now. "What makes you think that he--that either of us doesn't want him to come here?"

"He didn't, did he?" The child's eyes were wide, and for the first time Sarah saw the depth of the hurt in her. "He never tapes to me. Just to you. And he was right here when he dropped Spock off."

"Jill, neither of us ever--"

"He said he wasn't." The tears stood in her eyes now. "And you said it was just a word."

"I don't--what are you-- ."

"Don't you think I remember? You think I was such a little kid that I didn't even hear you?"

"He couldn't have said that," Sarah answered helplessly, trying to remember what had been said so long ago in the transporter room of the Enterprise. "He never would have said that." But what did he say? "I can't remember exactly what he said when you asked him if he was your father, but it couldn't have been no. If you knew him--"

"Well, I don't. And I'd really like it if Chris would come back." Jill wiped her eyes with her arm, pulled up a tuft of dry grass, and began to twist it in her fingers. "Can't you find out where he is?"

Sarah pressed her lips together. Jim is not on leave. Many unforeseen complications.... "Yes, I could do that. And I will. But it's not Chris you really want to see."

"What difference does it make?" the child asked dully, still tearing at the grass in her hands. "I like Chris, and I almost can't even remember what my father looks like. After all, I only saw him once. You never even show me the tapes."

"He doesn't tape to you," Sarah said slowly and carefully, "because I didn't want him to." So clear now. So deadly clear. "I wanted you all to myself. I always have."

"So what else is new?" Jill looked up, almost smiling, and Sarah simply stared at her. "But he didn't have to let you. Why did he let you?"

"I don't know." She held out her arm, and Jill moved to lean against her shoulder, still mutilating the grass she had pulled up. "You might tape to him and ask him."

"Oh--" Jill sighed listlessly. "I guess I might." She spread her fingers, but the dry blades did not blow away. There was no wind to blow them.

And Sarah thought distractedly, What did he say when she asked him if he was her father? But try as she would, the conversation she was trying to remember remained a confused blur in her mind. Small wonder that it was even more distant and vague in Jill's.

One of the mandilla had mounted the boulder against which they sat, and now it took off in a glide over them. Involuntarily, Sarah cringed. To her surprise and relief, Jill burst out laughing and hugged her. "Oh, Mother, do you think ducking would do any good?"

"Well--" But they were both laughing now. Hearing them, Spock and T'Ara turned to look, eyebrows rising, which made them laugh all the more.

When she reached home an hour later, Sarah found a message waiting for her: RECEIVED YOUR MESSAGE AFTER LEAVING ORBIT. THANK YOU. TIME RIGHT FOR ME TOO. UNTIL TOMORROW. FONDLY, JIM.

As she stood looking at the screen, she realized that Spock was behind her.

"No," he said softly. "Don't tell her yet. Too many things could still interfere."

"Do you remember," she asked, turning, "what he said when she asked him if he was her father?"

"He looked up at you," Spock answered gravely, "and you said 'It's just a word to her now.'"

"Then he never answered her?"

"No." It was one of the few times that she had ever heard him really sigh. "He did not."

When they were finally alone, it seemed that they had nothing to say to one another.

The clear blackness of the night sky was still obscured by dull, red-black clouds. In the distance there was thunder--not a loud, healthy thunder as on Earth, Sarah thought, but a peculiar ripping sound, as though a monstrous giant were hacking away at the overcast with a dull knife. She knew that she was beginning to panic: less than eighteen hours and he would be gone again--forever, it seemed to her at this moment. No time to get to know his child, who was, in a very real way, more his father's child than his; at bedtime, T'Ara had asked for her grandfather several times, and had found it difficult to maintain control when she said goodnight. No time to begin to know what it felt like to be husband and father, to begin to forget what it felt like to be first officer of the Enterprise. No time for anything.

When she first saw him at the spaceport that morning, rigid with tension, she had determined that she would not mention her intended trip to Earth on this leave. But now there seemed to be nothing else worth mentioning. He stood at the open doors to the balcony off their room, his back to the bed as though he were trying to ignore it--as he probably was, she knew. If I came to you now as I did then, I would not be Spock....

Click on the right arrow below to go to Part 3 of "The Alternate Christopher Jones"